Devices and Desires

by K. J. Parker

  “If Valens wanted to attack us,” someone else said, “he had his chance. I can’t see how it benefits him, lulling us into a true sense of security.”

  “We don’t know what kind of issues he’s involved with,” Bassamontis said. “We’re not the only ones with borders, or neighbors. Which is why I’d like to get some sort of idea of what’s going on over there; and the best way to find out is to go and see for ourselves.”

  “Well?” Miel turned to look at Iraclido. “Are you still in favor of putting the Mezentine’s head up on a pike?”

  Iraclido smiled. “I never expected you’d go along with that,” he said. “I was just telling you my opinion. By all means go ahead, send the delegation. As you say, it’s simple good manners. And on balance, I’m inclined to agree with Simbulo here; we can’t really do anything until we’ve got some idea of what’s going on next door. So, for the time being, we’ll just have to keep the Mezentine on a short leash and see what happens.”

  “Wouldn’t do any harm,” someone suggested, “to start finding out what he can do for us; assuming we decide to go down that road, I mean. So far, we’ve had some big promises. I propose we see the Mezentine for ourselves.”

  “Orsea?” Miel said.

  Orsea nodded. “By all means,” he said. “I’ve told you the gist of what he told me, but I’m no engineer, I don’t know if what he said’s possible, or what it’d involve. The trouble is, there’s not many of us who do. We need some experts of our own to listen to this man.”

  There was a short silence, as if he’d said something embarrassing. Then Iraclido said: “All due respect, but isn’t that the point? We don’t have any experts of our own. If we’d got anybody who could understand what the hell the Mezentine’s talking about, we wouldn’t need the Mezentine.”

  Miel lifted his head sharply. “I don’t think it’s as black and white as all that,” he said; and Orsea thought: actually, Iraclido’s right and Miel knows it, but he’s upset with him for being clever at my expense, and he’s too well-mannered to say so. “My father used to say,” Miel went on, “that so long as you’ve got ears and a tongue, you can learn anything. What’d be helpful is if we had someone who’s halfway there.”

  Iraclido looked at him. “You mean like a blacksmith, or a wheelwright?”

  “Yes, why not?” Orsea winced; he knew how much Miel disliked being wrong, and how stubborn he could be when circumstances had betrayed him into being wrong in public. “A bright man with an inquiring mind, that’s what we need. That can’t be impossible, surely.”

  “Maybe they were all killed in the war,” someone muttered, down the far end of the table. Orsea was glad he hadn’t seen who said it.

  “Well.” Iraclido was enjoying himself, in a languid sort of way. “If the Ducas can find someone who fits the bill, I suppose it can’t do any harm. As for bringing the Mezentine before this council, I’m afraid I can’t see what useful purpose that would serve. But if anyone else has strong feelings on the subject —”

  “Boca Cantacusene,” Orsea said briskly. Several heads turned to stare blankly at him; under other circumstances, he’d have found the looks on their faces amusing. “The armorer,” he explained. “Come on, some of you must have heard of him, he’s the warrant-holder. I gather he runs the best-equipped workshop in town. I don’t suppose it’s a patch on anything they’ve got in Mezentia, but at least he ought to be able to tell us if the Mezentine’s genuine, or whether he’s just making stuff up out of his head to con us out of money.”

  Iraclido shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “By all means have your blacksmith interview the Mezentine, I’d be interested to hear what he thinks. Meanwhile, we need to agree a course of action in respect of Duke Valens.”

  “With respect…” (Orsea looked round; Miel was only this polite and soft-spoken when he was furiously angry.) “With respect, I suggest we need rather more to go on before we decide anything in that regard. All we have to go on is a magnificent, though possibly uncharacteristic, act of generosity. I say a little research —”

  “Absolutely,” Orsea broke in, mainly to head off his friend before he lost his temper. “We need some reliable information about what’s going on, what Valens and the Vadani are up to.”

  Someone down the table stifled a yawn. “In that case,” whoever it was said, “how about the Merchant Adventurers? They’re good at intuition, picking up trends; got to be able to sense which way the wind’s blowing in business.”

  Mumbled approval all round the table; predictably, Orsea decided, since it was precisely the sort of compromise that satisfied committees and nobody else: if you can’t reach a decision, find a pretext for postponing it. “You can never have too much information,” he said. “It’s highly unlikely we’d get a straight answer through normal diplomatic channels. Who’s got a tame merchant who owes him a favor?”

  Two ducal summonses, neatly written on crisp new parchment (the first of the new batch, from the slaughter of the winter sheep) in oak-apple ink. One to Boca Cantacusene at his workshop in the lower town, requiring him to call on Count Ducas at his earliest convenience; one in similar terms to Belha Severina of the Weavers’ Company.

  Of course, Miel Ducas had met Boca Cantacusene before; had been measured by him — across the shoulders, under the armpits, from armpit to thighbone, thigh to knee, knee to ankle, an anatomy so complete that you could have built a perfect replica of the Ducas with nothing to go on except the armorer’s notes and drawings. Miel tried to remember if he’d paid the man’s latest bill.

  Cantacusene arrived in his best clothes, stiffer and more unnatural-looking on him than any suit of armor. He was a short man of around fifty, with massive forearms tapering down into thin wrists and small, short-fingered hands. He was nervous and bumped into furniture.

  “Do you think you could help?” Miel said, after he’d explained the situation and extracted a dreadful oath of discretion. “I mean, I wouldn’t understand a word he said, it’d be like a foreign language.”

  Cantacusene frowned, as if trying to picture a thirty-second of an inch in abstract. “It’d take a long time,” he said. “I’d have to get him to explain a whole lot of things before I started understanding, if you see what I mean.”

  “Of course,” Miel said. “But you’d at least be able to understand the explanations.”

  Another frown; a nod. “Yes, I think I could do that.” “Splendid.” Miel was fidgeting with his hands, something he didn’t usually do. “At this stage,” he said, “all we really need to know is whether he’s really a high-class Mezentine engineer, or whether he’s just pretending to be one — because he’s a spy, or just a vagrant looking to cheat us out of money. You could ask him questions, I suppose; like a quiz. Metalworking stuff.”

  Cantacusene shook his head. “I don’t think that would help a lot,” he said. “Me testing him, it’d be like testing a doctor on surgery by asking him how to cut toenails. But I think I can see my way, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course,” Miel said. “You’re the expert, I’ll leave it up to you how to proceed.” He paused, looked away. “One other thing,” he said. “I haven’t discussed this with the Duke, but I thought I’d sound you out first. It was him who suggested you, by the way.”

  “Honored,” Cantacusene said.

  “Well.” Miel stopped, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say. “If we do decide to go along with this, try and set up factories and such, like they’ve got in Mezentia, obviously we’re going to need skilled men for the Mezentine to teach his stuff to; and then they’ll go away and run the factories.”

  “Like foremen,” Cantacusene said.

  “Exactly, that’s right. Well, since the Duke himself suggested you, I guess you’re at the top of my list of candidates.”

  “I see.” Cantacusene had a knack of saying things with no perceptible intonation; completely neutral, like clean water.

  “Would you want to do that?”

  Another pause
for thought. “Yes,” Cantacusene replied.

  “Good. I mean,” Miel went on, “it’s all hypothetical, assuming we decide to go ahead — and obviously, to a certain extent that’ll depend on what you make of the man when you see him. But I thought I’d mention it.”

  “I see.”

  This time, Miel stood up. “Excellent,” he said, in a slightly strained voice. “Well, in that case we’ll send for you when we’re ready for the interview with the Mezentine, and we’ll take it from there. Meanwhile, thank you for your time.”

  Cantacusene nodded politely, got up and left. Why was that so difficult? Miel asked himself; then he rang the bell and told the usher he was ready for the merchant.

  She was younger than he’d expected; a year or so either side of forty, thin-faced, sharp-chinned, dressed in a tent of red velvet with seed-pearl trim, her hair short and staked down with combs and gold filigree pins. He had an idea she was some sort of off-relation — the Severinus was distantly connected to the Philargyrus, who trailed in and out of the Ducas family tree like ivy.

  (He’d seen a remarkable thing once; an oak sapling had tried to grow next to a vigorous, bushy willow, on the warm southern slopes of the Ducas winter grazing; but the willow grew quicker, and it had twined its withies through the young oak’s branches for ten years or so, and then put on a spurt in its trunk, gradually ripping it out of the ground, until its dead roots drooped in midair like a hung man’s feet. He’d come back with men and axes, because the Ducas had always stood for justice on their lands, but he hadn’t been able to find the place again.)

  She’d listened carefully as he explained, rather awkwardly, what he wanted her to do. She didn’t seem surprised at all. “Do you think you can help us?” he’d asked.

  “It should be possible,” she replied. “My sister Teano’s just joined a consortium with a contract for green sand —”

  “I’m sorry,” Miel interrupted. “Green sand?”

  “Casting sand.” She almost smiled. “For making molds,” she said. “You know, melting metal and casting. You need a special kind of sand, very fine and even. The Vadani used to get it from the Lonazep cartels, who got it from the Cure Hardy; so obviously, it wasn’t cheap. But Teano’s consortium have found a deposit of the stuff in the Red River valley. They can undercut Lonazep by a third and still clear three hundred percent.”

  “Good heavens,” said Miel, assuming it was expected of him. “So, your sister’s likely to be going back and forth across the mountains quite a bit from now on?”

  She nodded; actually it was more of a peck, like a woodpecker in a dead tree. “The contract is with the Vadani silver board. That’ll put Teano right in the center of the Vadani government. It oughtn’t to be impossible to get the information you want.”

  “But it won’t be cheap,” Miel said. “Will it?”

  There was a trace of disapproval in her expression. “No,” she said. “At least, Teano will want a lot of money — if they figure out what she’s up to, the very best she can hope for is losing a very lucrative deal. She’ll want an indemnity in case that happens, and a substantial retainer; and then there’s my fee, of course.”

  Miel pursed his lips. “I see.”

  “Ten percent,” she went on. “Paid by the customer.”

  “You make it sound like, I don’t know, a lawyer’s bill or something. Broken down into items, and each one with a fancy name.”

  “Quite,” she said, unmoved. “Professional expenses. If you’re in business, you have to be businesslike.”

  “Fine. So what does an indemnity plus a retainer plus a fee come to? In round numbers?”

  “Does it matter?” She was frowning slightly. “You need this information. I don’t imagine Duke Orsea has given you a specific budget.”

  “No. He leaves things like that to me.” Miel shrugged. “We won’t quibble about it now.”

  “I should think not.” She was scolding him, he thought. “The security of the Duchy is at stake. And, as I hope I’ve made clear, my sister will be running a substantial risk.”

  The Ducas charm didn’t seem to be working as well as it usually did — the scar, Miel thought, maybe it’s as simple as that. If so, it’s a damned nuisance. You get used to having your own way on the strength of a smile and a softly spoken word. If the charm’s gone, I suppose I’ll have to learn some new skills; eloquence, or maybe even sincerity. “Quite,” he said. “Well, I think we’ve covered everything. I’ll look forward to getting your first report in due course. Thank you very much for your time.”

  As he showed her out and closed the door behind her, Miel was left with the depressing feeling of having done a bad job. Not that it mattered; he was paying money for a service to a professional specialist, there was no requirement that she should like him. Even so — I guess I’ve got used to being able to make people like me; it makes things easier, and they try harder. I’ll have to think about that.

  He yawned. What he wanted to do most in all the world was to go home to his fine house on the east face, send down to the cellars for a few bottles of something better than usual, and spend an hour or two after dinner relaxing; a few games of chess, some music. Instead, he had reports to read, letters to write, meetings to prepare for. There was a big marble pillar in the middle cloister of the Ducas house, on which were inscribed the various public offices held by members of the family over the past two and a half centuries. His father had four inches, narrowly beating his grandfather (three and two thirds). As a boy, when Father had been away from home so often, he’d sat on the neatly trimmed grass and stared up at the pillar, wondering what the unfamiliar words meant: six times elected Excubitor of the Chamber. Was that a good thing to be? What did an Excubitor do? Was Dad never at home because he was away somewhere Excubiting? For years he’d played secret, violent games in which he’d been Orphanotrophus Ducas, Grand Excubitor, fighting two dragons simultaneously or facing down a hundred Cure Hardy armed only with a garden rake. Six months ago, when Heleret Phocas had died and Orsea had given him his old job, he’d not been able to keep from bursting out laughing when he heard what the job title was. (No dragons so far, and no Cure Hardy; the Excubitor of the Chamber, Grand or just plain ordinary, was nominally in charge of the castle laundry.) Now he already had two inches of his own on the pillar; gradually, day by day and step by painful step, he was turning into somebody else.

  Reports, letters, minutes, agendas; he left the South Tower, where the interview rooms were, and headed across the middle cloister to the north wing and his office. The quickest route took him past the mews, and he noticed that the door was open. He paused; at this time of day, there’d be hawks loose, the door should be kept shut. He frowned, and went to close it, but there was a woman sitting in the outer list. He didn’t recognize her till she turned her head and smiled at him.

  “Hello, Miel,” she said.

  “Veatriz.” He relaxed slightly. “You left the door open.”

  “It’s all right,” she replied, “Hanno’s put the birds away early. I’ve been watching him fly the new tiercel.”

  “Ah, right. What new tiercel?”

  She laughed. “The one you gave Orsea, silly. The peregrine.”

  “Yes, of course.” She was right, of course; it had been Orsea’s birthday present. His cousin had chosen it, since Miel didn’t really know about hawks; it had been expensive, a passager from the Cure Doce country. It’d been that word new that had thrown him, because Orsea’s birthday had been a month ago, just before they set off for the war, and anything that had happened back then belonged to a time so remote as to be practically legendary. “Is it any good?” he asked.

  “Hanno thinks so,” she said. “He says it’ll be ready for the start of the season, whenever that is. It’ll do Orsea good to get out and enjoy himself, after everything that’s happened.”

  “We were talking about going out with the hawks just the other day. Is that a new brooch you’re wearing?”

  “Do you
like it?”

  “Yes,” he lied. “Lonazep?”

  She shook her head. “Vadani. I got it from a merchant. Fancy you noticing, though. Men aren’t supposed to notice jewelry and things.”

  She had a box on the bench beside her; a small, flat rosewood case. He recognized it as something he’d given her; a writing set. Her wedding present from the Ducas. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’ve trained myself in observation. Women think I’m sensitive and considerate.”

  She was looking at his face. “You look tired,” she said.

  “Too many late nights,” he said. “And tomorrow I’ve got to take the Mezentine to see a blacksmith.”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He yawned again. “Do excuse me,” he said. “I’d better be getting on. Would you tell Orsea I’ve seen the Severina woman? He knows what it’s about.”

  “Severina. Do you mean the trader? I think I’ve met her.” She nodded. “Yes, all right. What did you need to see her about, then?”

  Miel grinned. “Sand.”

  “Sand?”

  He nodded. “Green sand, to be precise.”

  “Serves me right for asking.”

  As he climbed the stairs to the North Tower, he wondered why Veatriz would take her writing set with her when she went to see the falcons. Not that it mattered. That was the trouble with noticing things; you got cluttered up, like a hedgehog in dry leaves.

  Meetings. He made a note in his day-book about Belha Severina, not that there was a great deal to say; agreed to arrange inquiries through her sister; terms unspecified. Was that all? He pondered for a while, but couldn’t think of anything else to add.

  It was close; the shape, the structure. He could almost see it, but not quite.

  Once, not long after he married Ariessa, he’d designed a clock. He had no idea why he’d done it; it was something he wanted to do, because a clock is a challenge. There’s the problem of turning linear into rotary movement. There are issues of gearing, timing, calibration. Anything that diverts or dissipates the energy transmitted from the power source to the components is an open wound. Those in themselves were vast issues; but they’d been settled long ago by the Clockmakers’ Guild, and their triumph was frozen forever in the Seventy-Third Specification. There’d be no point torturing himself, two hundred components moving in his mind like maggots, unless he could add something, unless he could improve on the perfection the Specification represented. He’d done it in the end; he’d redefined the concept of the escapement, leaping over perfection like a chessboard knight; he’d reduced the friction on the bearing surfaces by a quarter, using lines and angles that only he could see. Slowly and with infinite care, he’d drawn out his design, working late at night when there was no risk of being discovered, until he had a complete set of working drawings, perfectly to scale and annotated with all the relevant data, from the gauge of the brass plate from which the parts were to be cut, to the pitch and major and minor diameters of the screw-threads. When it was complete, perfect, he’d laid the sheets of crisp, hard drawing paper out on the cellar floor and checked them through thoroughly, just in case he’d missed something. Then he’d set light to them and watched them shrivel up into light-gray ash, curled like the petals of a rose.